


Cause, Effect

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's annoying, Watson's bemused and Lestrade's disappeared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause, Effect

Title: Cause, effect.  
Author: Elf  
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock, Watson, Lestrade.  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 1400  
Spoilers: None  
Summary: Sherlock's annoying, Watson's bemused and Lestrade's disappeared.  
Notes/Warnings: First attempt at Sherlock fic. Concrit most welcome!  
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even the lovely Lestrade, more's the pity.

 

 

 

"It's absolutely obvious, any fool could see it," he virtually shouted as he swept into the office. Then he paused and looked around the room. "Present company excepted."

 

Watson, trailing behind Holmes as normal, looked at the sea of faces in CID. As usual, none of them looked particularly pleased that their case had, apparently, been solved.

 

"Now," Sherlock strode past them all, the long tails of his coat knocking a few errant papers off desks, and pushed open the door to Lestrade's office. "Lest…" he turned and fixed Donovan with a stare. "Where's Lestrade?"

 

Donovan stared back, open hostility on her face. "Don't you _know_?"

 

Sherlock swept back through the main office, his hand on the door before Watson could catch up enough to hiss "The case, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock turned to face the room. "Business partner, hired a killer. Incompetent. Killer will be in Southwark, drug user. Business partner will tell you he doesn't know the man's name, but he does. Surely you can work out the rest." And he was gone.

 

Watson took a moment to look back at the baffled faces. He gave an apologetic half-shrug, then jogged to catch up with Holmes.

 

"So…"

 

"Lestrade."

 

"You know where he is?" Watson asked feeling, as always, that he had missed something obvious.

 

"No. Not exactly, but Donovan knows something. She's not surprised he's not at work, despite the fact there's a case on, and Lestrade would never, willingly, leave a case. But she is surprised that I didn't know he wasn't there, which means there's something I know already which will lead me to him. He's been there, too, this morning. His mug was on his desk, used, not washed up."

 

Watson was reasonably sure that Sherlock hadn't spent more than half a second glancing into Lestrade's office, but it didn't surprise him that he'd noticed such things. "So…"

 

"He's been there, he's gone home. He had a bad cough last week. Or to hospital, but he's stubborn, so probably home. Probably been sent home by a superior. Without a choice. He might need you."

 

And Watson was fixed with Holmes' intense stare. He swallowed. "Yes, right. So…do you know where he lives?"

 

The look he got that time was withering.

 

 

When they arrived outside the newish, nondescript block of flats Watson glanced at Sherlock, waiting to see what he was going to do. He was somewhat surprised to discover that one of the key fobs on Sherlock's set opened the door to the building, and even more so that two of the keys apparently fitted Lestrade's front door. "I didn't know you two were…"

 

Sherlock pinned him with another glare. "He didn't like me breaking in, so he gave me keys. Sometimes they come in useful."

 

Watson didn't ask why Sherlock would ever have broken into the DI's flat. He didn't think he wanted to know. What was obvious, though, was that Lestrade was not at home. That seemed to surprise Sherlock, who checked through the small flat.

 

"He hasn't been back here," Sherlock concluded, having checked the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. Watson had stayed in the lounge, looking around idly. "But nor has he gone anywhere."

 

Watson turned to raise an inquisitive eyebrow, but Sherlock was already on his way out of the flat. Watson, once again, rushed to catch up.

 

As they headed back to the main road Watson reached into his pocket for his phone. Then a thought struck him. "Sherlock, why don't you just…call him?" He waggled his phone in front of Sherlock, just to try to get the message across.

 

"Because…" Sherlock began, but didn't carry on.

 

'Because that would mean admitting you didn't know where he was,' Watson's brain supplied. 'Just like asking Donovan what happened would show she knew something you didn't.'

 

 

As Holmes led the way up the stairs to their flat Watson was already finding the numbers in his phone to call various hospitals and ask if any of them contained the missing DI. The cough had been bad, but nothing that indicated anything more than a chest infection. Watson himself had told Lestrade to take a few days off, but he was getting rather used to being ignored, so hadn't been surprised when Lestrade hadn't obeyed. Still, he felt bad that he hadn't given the man a proper examination – maybe even prescribed something to help.

 

He walked into Sherlock as the other man stopped abruptly in the doorway to their sitting room. He peered around to try to see what had halted Sherlock, but before he could see anything a chesty, rasping cough told him that their quarry had been found. Or rather, had found them.

 

"You look greyer than normal, Inspector," Sherlock said, and breezed through the room, dropping outdoor clothing as he went.

 

The tone and observation told of a total lack of interest, but the way he'd halted in the doorway spoke volumes to Watson.

 

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice was hoarse, and he did indeed look grey, Watson noted. "I need you to come back to the yard with me. Now."

 

Holmes didn't bother to look at Lestrade. "Just come from there," he replied, neatly omitting any mention of the visit to Lestrade's flat. "Case solved. Or at least, it is if that pack of morons you keep there have done any work in the meantime. Pack. Is that a good collective noun for morons? Not really. Suggests order, discipline."

 

Lestrade looked, to Watson, like a man who could kill, if only he had the energy.

 

"I'm not talking about the bloody case!" Lestrade's already strained voice broke as he tried to shout, leaving the last word barely a whisper. "I've been suspended and you need to come and sort it out, right?"

 

Sherlock turned then, one eyebrow raised. "Well, I hardly see what it has to do with…"

 

He stopped as Lestrade held up a small stack of black leather wallets, complete with shining badges of the Metropolitan Police.

 

"Well I didn't know you could get into trouble for losing them. You always seem to get a new one," Sherlock said, calmly. "You should tell them…"

 

"What?" Lestrade's voice cut out on him again. He continued in a hoarse whisper. "Tell them that some dysfunctional prick, who's probably responsible for clearing up half the serious crimes on this manor, isn't only a demented genius, but also a total kleptomaniac? That he has some strange urge to pick my fucking pocket every time we meet? They think I'm selling these on the black market, Sherlock. They can't believe that anyone can get through warrant cards like I do with any sort of a reasonable explanation. And they're right; I don't have a reasonable explanation. I have you. And you're coming with me, right now, so I can go back to work. Right?"

 

Lestrade had been steadily advancing on Sherlock the entire time he'd been speaking, and the final word was flung into Sherlock's face, despite the Lestrade being a couple of inches shorter than Holmes.

 

Sherlock turned away and very gently coughed. "I hope you're not contagious, Inspector," he said softly.

 

"I bloody hope I am," Lestrade spat back.

 

 

Watson was amazed that Sherlock not only agreed to go to Scotland Yard, but also, meekly, apologised to the Detective Chief Superintendent without so much as a single complaint. By the look of it, Lestrade was also surprised.

 

Watson stood at the back of the room, watching as the pile of warrant cards were returned, Sherlock chatted easily with the officer, Lestrade looked a great deal less stressed out and everyone left the impromptu meeting with smiles and handshakes and promises of great things to come from the working relationship.

 

It took him until they reached Baker Street to finally say anything.

 

"Well that was…nice. I mean, everyone happy, in the end. Lestrade back at work – although he should take some time off, for that cough. But still. It was…mature of you." He just managed to stop himself from adding 'well done'.

 

Sherlock span to face him, a look of annoyance on his face. "Idiots, all of them." And then he pulled something from his pocket and placed it on the mantelpiece. A triangular wooden block, with bold gold writing. 'DCS Hawthorne' it read. And from his other pocket he pulled the stack of warrant cards and dumped them, unceremoniously, on the coffee table. "Don't look at me like that. Lestrade hasn't lost them now, has he? That pompous git Hawthorne has."

 

Watson shook his head and tried to stop himself from laughing. "Tea?" he offered.

 

~Fin


End file.
